


The Thing

by dianatrout



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sansa Stark, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Jon buys a clue, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa is sick of this shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-12-27 23:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianatrout/pseuds/dianatrout
Summary: After all she has suffered, Sansa has finally had enough. That's it, she's done. No more fighting, no more caring, she's done. Of course, it was Jon Snow who finally pushed her to her breaking point and he doesn't even seem to realize.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've really been digging the various Sansa Lets Jon Know Just How Much He Done Goofed works lately, so I'm trying my hand at my own.
> 
> This is my first ever fic, so please be gentle! Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but as should go without saying, if you don't like it, don't read it! If you love Dany or hate Sansa, maybe find something else.

Sansa

Sansa didn’t know what to call it, that _thing_ she had always felt inside her. When she was a child, she seemed full to bursting with it. Even in the depths of her despair during her captivity in King’s Landing, she still felt it there. She thought it lived somewhere near her heart, the thing, but sometimes it moved to her belly, sometimes it grew until she could feel it from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. The thing could change, she knew. Sometimes it would shrink, and she would not notice the loss until she felt it bloom again. Sometimes it was light as a breeze, and she thought she might float away with it. Other times it was heavy, wrapping around her like a thick blanket.

Some people may have called it _hope_, the thing, but Sansa knew that was not quite right. No, the thing was more than that, somehow. There was joy there. Peace. Contentment. There was the surety that things would alright, and if not, well, that was fine too.

Joffrey had tried to destroy the thing. Cersei had too. Baelish had tried to feed it, once or twice, before Sansa had found a way to wall it off from his slinking attempts. Ramsay had liked to play with it, had made her think of killing it herself. It didn’t deserve his cruel touch. She had almost done it too, but then she and Theon had leapt from the walls and she felt it buoying her descent.

And Jon. Oh how Jon had nurtured that thing. He had no agenda, and Sansa worried she should try to protect the thing, even from him, though it felt so natural to share it. She had tried to guard it, but time and again Jon would reach past her feeble barriers and it would grow and grow. She thought perhaps he could feel it too, the thing, for he seemed to know it as intimately as she, seemed to know exactly what it needed. She thought he liked to see it grow and liked it for no other reason than that it seemed good and right that this thing _should_ grow.

She had trusted him with the thing. Trusted him like no other. Perhaps that was why he was the one to finally, finally kill it. For he had killed it, Sansa was certain. She had felt it shrinking since Jon’s return, felt him cut and cut and cut away.

Now, standing around the wide table as Daenerys’ advisors planned how to take the Iron Throne, she felt the killing blow.

“The Northern forces will honor their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He was staring at her, cold grey eyes cutting deeper than any of Ramsay’s knives, cutting straight to the thing. He knew just where to find it and just how to kill it and kill it he did.

She could not say how long he stared. Time seemed so small a matter, now that the thing was gone. In any event, he must have been satisfied that he had, indeed, killed the thing, for her turned away from her. Away from her and toward Daenerys.

“What you command, we will obey.”

* * *

They were gathered in the godswood, the last of the Starks, for Arya had demanded they meet. Sansa could not focus on what they were saying, too absorbed in the loss of the thing. She felt along the edges of that place where lived, worrying at the hole like a tongue at a missing tooth.

She should be upset at the death of the thing, for it had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember, but she only felt empty. Perhaps that should be frightening, but she couldn’t think why. There was almost relief there, tucked away amidst the fuzzy emptiness, just beyond reach.

“Sansa?”

She looked to her little sister, who huffed in exasperation.

“What?” she asked. She had not registered whatever they were talking about, but it could hardly be important to her now. Still, she tried to focus. Best finish this conversation quickly so she might examine her nothingness some more.

“Kind of you to join us. Do you swear?” Arya asked.

“Hmm?”

“Sansa,” she was surprised to hear Jon speak and waited for that familiar tug she always felt when he said her name. It didn’t come. “You have to swear not to tell another soul what I tell you.”

Sansa was quite certain it did not matter one way or the other. Whether she promised or not, whether she told or not, it simply did not rate.

“I swear it.”

It was so hard to follow what Bran was saying. His eerie monotone made her want to snuggle back into the nothing and sleep. Gods, when had she become so tired?

“You’re still a Stark. You’re still my brother.” Arya said before hugging Jon fiercely.

Jon was looking at her questioningly, so she nodded. He seemed… disappointed by that, but he let it go.

She waited another moment, but it seemed they were done. Relief nudged at her again, but it was the nothingness that pushed her back to her chambers.

* * *

Jon

He had been caught off guard by Sansa’s non-reaction to the truth of his parentage. He almost wondered if she had somehow already known, for it would not surprise him, but she hadn’t seemed to be registering it at all. Surely, she would have something to say, he had thought. She would have some wise counsel for him or even a chastisement. He had hoped for something more, had wished for the comfort he always felt when she was close. In truth, he was aching to see her reaction to the change in their relationship. _Cousins, not siblings_.

Since that night Sam had found him in the crypts, Jon had thought of little but the secret of his birth. It had changed everything and nothing. He was not Ned Stark’s bastard, the single stain upon the honor of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He had not begun to process what that meant for _him_, but he was certain he did not want to sit the Iron Throne, even more so after seeing Daenerys’ reaction. She had been adamant that he tell no one, but that hadn’t felt right either. He had to tell his sisters. They deserved to know the truth of their father’s disgrace. It would change nothing with Arya, he knew, but Sansa? With Sansa it could change everything. Did he want that? Did she?

Jon was grateful for the distraction of the march South, of the distance it would put between him and Sansa, him and Daenerys. His feelings for the two women was another matter best let alone for the time.

A knock on the heavy wooden door of his solar pulled him from his thoughts. A moment later, Ser Davos entered the room.

“Your grace, er, I mean…”

Jon saved the Onion Knight from searching for the appropriate title. “Is it time?”

“Aye. The men are ready, or as ready as they will be.” Ser Davos had agreed with Sansa, had expressed the same concern to him earlier. Their logic was sound. Every day they waited was another day’s wages Cersei owed to the Golden Company and another day of healing for their tired and wounded soldiers. Even the dragons could use a rest. But Jon knew Daenerys would not be swayed and they could not afford to increase her doubt of their loyalty.

Jon stood and grabbed the cloak Sansa had given him back at Castle Black. He wanted to see her before leaving, to reassure himself that she was alright, that _they_ would be alright. There was so much he wanted to say with her, but he had never been good with words.

Perhaps it was just as well that she was not waiting in the courtyard to see him off. He scanned the battlements, but she was not there either.

“She’s not coming out.”

Jon turned to see Bran, seated placidly in his wheeled chair, being pushed by a red-cheeked Samwell Tarly.

It was unsettling how calm Bran always looked, how little emotion pervaded his words or tone. It was even more unsettling how his little brother seemed capable of reading his mind. Still, he supposed Bran’s new abilities had their uses.

“Is she alright?”

Bran remained silent for several moments, holding Jon’s gaze, before he finally responded. “She will be.”

Jon didn’t know how to unpack that, and Bran was evidently not going to elaborate. Jon swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and gave his brother a hug. He bid Samwell goodbye as well, wishing Gilly an easy birth, then turned to where Ser Davos stood with the horses.

Casting one last longing look at the empty battlements, Jon mounted his horse and rode away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reacts to news from the South as Varys prepares to make a stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks x100000 to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter! <3
> 
> I originally intended this to be four chapters, but it's looking like I will need more. We'll see what happens! While this work is pretty Sansa-centric, I do want to delve into what some of the characters in the South are doing and how/why events there unfold the way they do.
> 
> Includes recognizable dialogue from 8x05.

Sansa

Sansa walked aimlessly through the courtyard, as had become her custom in the weeks since Jon and his Dragon Queen departed Winterfell. As the lady of the castle, she had certain responsibilities. The battle against the Night King and his army had taken its toll upon both the building and its people, not to mention the drain hosting legions of Unsullied and Dothraki had placed upon their stores. The North needed to be rebuilt and Sansa supposed she was mean to make that happen.

It might have bothered her, if she could bring herself to care at all, how she had been ignored and overruled time and again but was now expected to clean up the damage. She should feel angry, but in truth she had felt very little at all since the _thing_ had gone and she’s become quite comfortable in her new numbness.

And so, she found herself wandering about most days, allowing herself to be seen. She did not much care about maintaining appearances as the Lady of Winterfell, but there was nothing better to do and the activity seemed to shake some of the weariness from her bones.

The crunching of boots on snow and the sound of jangling metal caught her attention and Sansa turned to see Maester Wolkan hurrying toward her.

“A raven came, my lady.” The man was slightly out of breath as he extended an arm toward her with a neatly rolled scroll in his hand.

Sansa accepted the scroll, pocketing without bothering to examine the seal. Bran probably knew what it contained already.

Maester Wolkan looked at her expectantly for a moment before coming to the conclusion that she did not intend to read the message, nor did she require his services. He mumbled a hasty, “my lady,” and retreated to the maester’s tower.

* * *

The high table in the Great Hall stood empty. Sansa had no desire to sit in her father’s chair, now abandoned by Jon. She used to sit in her mother’s old place, but Daenerys had laid claim to that, along with everything else that was once hers. She would have preferred to take her meals in the quiet of her solar, but Ser Brienne would not hear of it. After the first night of her lady knight half dragging her to the hall, Sansa had acquiesced, though she now found herself at one of the long, low tables seated with Jaime Lannister and Podrick Payne.

Bran had joined them this evening, abandoning his usual post in the godswood, and it was he who broke the silence of their meal.

“You haven’t opened it.”

Sansa looked up from her untouched meal to meet Bran’s unsettling gaze. Feeling another three sets of eyes upon her, she sighed and pulled the scroll from her cloak, dropping it onto the table.

“Well, don’t leave us in suspense, Lady Stark,” Jaime teased. Oddly enough, she did not mind the Lannister knight’s presence, save for the occasions when she noticed a glint of something too close to sympathy in his expression.

Sansa made no move to open the scroll, so Jaime reached forth with his good hand to pluck it from the table. He held it aloft, intent on toying with her further but Brienne snatched it from his grip.

“My lady?”

Sansa sighed and took the letter from Brienne. No sooner had she finished reading than she burst into laughter. Heads were turning all across the hall, but she could not contain it

Brienne had picked up the discarded parchment and was scanning through for the source of her lady’s merriment.

“What happened?”

Sansa was vaguely aware of Jaime speaking and tried to calm herself before another peal of laughter hit and she abandoned the attempt. Brienne responded for her.

“Euron Greyjoy ambushed Queen Daenerys and her fleet. One of the dragons was killed, several ships destroyed, Missandei captured.”

Everyone at the table was staring at her with a mix of horror and concern, save Bran, whose expression never seemed to change anyway. She knew it was inappropriate to laugh at such news, truly she did, but it was just so _funny_.

The great Mother of Dragons bested by a pirate. Another of her dragons killed and her friend sure to be as well, all because she had chosen to rush in blind to fight Cersei. _Cersei_, a woman who had been clinging to power for years through such ill-thought schemes as rearming a group of religious zealots and blowing up a holy site with the most dangerous substance known to man. Cersei Lannister had made her life miserable for _years_ and now she stood a chance of defeating the woman who had arrived in Westeros with thousands of highly trained fighters, the support of Dorne and Highgarden, and three fully grown dragons. It was all too ridiculous.

Then again, there was the chance that Arya would succeed in killing the Lannister queen, for certainly that was her objective when she left Winterfell without a word. Sansa was not worried for her sister. She had, after all, kept herself alive quite well on her own since their father died and besides all that, she had defeated the Night King. That thought made Sansa laugh so hard she could scarcely breathe. For all Daenerys’ armies and dragons, it had been little Arya Stark wielding Petyr Baelish’s dagger who truly saved them all.

It was Jaime who finally hauled her to her feet and ushered her from the hall, a stunned Brienne trailing behind as Podrick remained with Bran. He towed her all the way to her chambers, dumping her unceremoniously on the bed before striding away without a word.

Sansa had regained some control of herself, laughter turning to hiccups, but as she wiped tears from her cheeks, she caught sight of Brienne’s befuddled expression and felt another hysterical giggle burst forth. The lady knight sighed.

“I’ll fetch Maester Tarly.”

* * *

Varys

Varys stood upon the beach of Dragonstone watching a small boat row to shore. It had been only days since Varys had found himself heaving up sea water upon these sands, but it felt like years. How quickly it had all gone wrong…

The Spider did not consider himself a brave man, nor a rash one. He preferred to wait, letting the pieces fall into place before planning his moves. Loathe as he was to admit it, but he had played the game for more than just the realm. Truly, he had enjoyed it – testing his mettle against the likes of Petyr Baelish, Tywin Lannister, and especially Tyrion.

But now, the field had become weak and the board unbalanced. Never had the game been fair, but where once five kings had volleyed for control, now sat two queens – one ready to sacrifice countless innocents to keep her crown, the other poised to destroy it all – and the whole world, it seemed, was holding its breath.

Perhaps he would have enjoyed this new challenge if he faced a worthy opponent, but there would be no pleasure this round, win or lose. Still, he had not survived this long to forfeit, and the stakes were far too high.

And so, he found himself stretching his neck out for what would almost certainly be the last time, desperate to make a play before it was too late.

He had approached Daenerys, making good on his vow to speak honestly should he find her failing the realm. Recalling her response made him shudder. _“I am here to free the world from tyrants. That is my destiny, and I will serve it no matter the cost.”_

_Destiny_. How many heinous acts had been justified by _destiny_?

_“I’ve served tyrants most of my life. They all talk about destiny.” He had hoped there was something left of his old friend, but Tyrion too was intractable._

_“She’s a girl who walked into a fire with three stones and walked out with three dragons,” the diminutive hand replied. “How could she not believe in destiny?”_

_“Perhaps that’s the problem,” he mused. “Her life has convinced her that she was sent here to save us all.”_

_“And how do you know she wasn’t?”_

Varys had not had an answer for that. He detested magic and was weary of prophecies. Had Rhaegar not thrown the realm into chaos for that very reason?

_The prince that was promised_. Or princess, as Daenerys had believed. But the red witch had said another had a part to play as well – Jon Snow.

_How curious_, he mused, _that a bastard boy had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Mother of Dragons_. He had often pondered the mystery of the boy’s mother, made all the more intriguing by Lord Stark’s refusal to name her. It was, perhaps, too curious that the honorable Ned Stark had returned from war with a baseborn son, had raised the boy among his own trueborn children, suffering his wife’s displeasure, only to send him off to the Wall to serve among rapers and thieves. Too curious that the very same boy had risen through the ranks to be named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, had been crowned the King in the North, had been chosen by the last living Targaryen to ride one of the only two dragons the world had seen in centuries.

No, Varys did not much care for prophecy, but he could not deny that the circumstances of Jon Snow’s life and, if his little birds were to be believed, death were more than passing strange. If Daenerys Targaryen was destined to free the world from tyrants by raining fire down upon it, could Jon Snow not be destined to free the world from _her_?

Destiny or no, Varys could see no better option. The former King in the North was not exceedingly bright, but then, Varys did not need him to be. With the right advisors if would make little difference and besides, a simple king would be easier to manage. No, what mattered most was his character and of that Varys felt, if not certain, at least far surer than Daenerys Targaryens’.

It would be a delicate thing, approaching Snow. The man thought himself honorable and honorable Stark men had not fared well in the game of thrones.

Varys was spared any debate, for the man in question was striding purposefully up the beach. Steeling his nerves, Varys made his move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't intend to spend so much time in Varys' head, but it happened, so...
> 
> Next chapter should pick up with Jon's POV as we move toward the attack on KL.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon continues to hide from reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a month since the last chapter and I had really hoped to update sooner. Things got busy and my computer got stolen, but I was at last able to recover my writing file. As promised, here is the conversation between Varys and Jon. I think I will stick to one POV per chapter from now on, unless it's short.
> 
> Includes dialogue from GOT 8.05.

Jon

Jon was not surprised to see a welcome party as his small boat approached the shore of Dragonstone. He was not, however, expecting that party to consist of a lone figure – Lord Varys. He’d had little to do with the former Master of Whispers and had been content with that state of affairs. Varys had spent years at court in King’s Landing and served more rulers than Jon could count. The spider did not set his teeth on edge in quite the same way Littlefinger once had, but he did make Jon uneasy.

Jon strode purposefully up the beach, conveying to Varys how little he wished to engage in the riddles and flowery talk of the South. He had far larger concerns, having received a raven bearing news of the deaths of both Rhaegal and Missandei. There was a curious ache whenever he thought of the green dragon, but he was more concerned for Daenerys than himself. She had lost another child and her closest friend since he had seen her last. When she left Winterfell, she had been determined. _The Last War_, she had called it, and in that moment, Jon had been content with his choice to bend the knee. Bold, with a vision of changing the world, perhaps she could be a queen for them all. Perhaps, at long last, Westeros would see peace.

Then, of course, she had insisted upon marching South immediately, Sansa had protested, and he could not ignore the issues his abdication had caused. _But didn’t you do just that by following after Daenerys and leaving Sansa to handle the North once more?_ No, that was a line of thought he could not contemplate now. He was almost grateful for Varys’ presence then, pulling him back from his thoughts.

“The Northern armies?”

“They just crossed the Trident. They’ll be at the walls of King’s Landing in two days.” Varys fell into step with Jon as he proceeded toward the castle. It seemed the eunuch wanted more from Jon than an update on troop movements. Best to head him off, then. “How is she?”

“She hasn’t seen anyone since we returned,” Varys replied. “Hasn’t left her chambers, hasn’t accepted any food.”

That was unlike her, but then it had been Missandei who was her constant companion. Now…

“She shouldn’t be alone.” Jon knew that instinctively. He had not known Daenerys long, but he already knew her to be impulsive. He recalled her fury when Euron Greyjoy had struck her another blow, attacking Yara Greyjoy’s fleet and capturing her Martell allies. She’d been ready to fly to the Red Keep right then, to end the war with fire and blood. Tyrion had not swayed her, but she had asked for Jon’s opinion. He’d been surprised, to say the least, both as a bastard and a rival king, that she would seek his input. He still was not sure if it was a mark of her respect for him, her desperation to win her war, or the sign of a truly great leader.

_“I’m at war. I’m losing. What do you think I should do?”_

_He’d never been one for speeches, but there was something about her, this Mother of Dragons, that seemed to pull the words from him._

_“The people who follow you know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe that you can make other impossible things happen. Build a world that’s different from the shit one they’ve always known. But if you use them to melt castles and burn cities, you’re not different. You’re just more of the same.”_

He recalled too their conversation upon her return.

_“You weren’t gone long.” She had asked for his advice, but Jon could not be sure how much she would share with him now._

_“No.” Very little then, it seemed._

_“And?” He was not sure why he cared, for this Southern war meant little to him. And yet, he had just stood before the largest of her dragons, looking it in the eye and feeling its hot breath upon him as he extended a wavering hand. Gorgeous beasts, he had called them. Her children, she had corrected. Either way, they were magical. Magic, to Jon, had once been but the subject of Old Nan’s stories. Now he had seen enough to know it was real. As real as the Night King raising up the dead. As real as rising from the dead himself. _

_“And I have fewer enemies today than I did yesterday.” A cryptic response. Yet Daenerys continued. “You’re not sure how you feel about that.”_

_“No, I’m not.”_

_“How many men did your army kill taking Winterfell back from the Boltons?”_

_“Thousands.” Sometimes Jon felt he could still smell the pyres. He’d known the cost would be high. He’d convinced himself it had to be done. To unite the North for the coming war against the dead, to save Rickon, to avenge his family. And for Sansa. It had to be done for her. Still, it haunted him. _

_“We both want to help people. We can only help them from a position of strength.” Daenerys replied, quiet but sure. “Sometimes strength is terrible.”_

He had not asked what exactly had transpired on the Goldroad and had tried not to imagine.

What would she do now? She had lost two dragons since, but he had no doubt that with Drogon alone she could make a show of terrible strength. No, she should not be alone.

“You’re worried for her.” Jon had nearly forgotten Varys was still there and realized now that the man must have been staring at him for some time. “I admire your empathy.”

Yes, he was worried. Worried for Daenerys. Worried for the realm. But he could not let those worries distract him now, not in the presence of the Spider.

“Aren’t you worried for her?” He didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m worried for all of us.” Jon couldn’t be sure if Varys was sincere, but he was certain there was more coming. There was, for Varys continued, “They say every time a Targaryen is born the gods toss a coin and the world holds its breath.”

Jon’s own breath caught. He did not like where this was going and yet he wished Varys would just come out with it.

“We’re not much for riddles where I’m from.”

Jon was surprised at the shift in the other man’s tone as he began to speak plainly.

“We both know what she’s about to do.”

Jon stifled a sigh. He did know. They all did. Yet there was nothing to be done for it.

“That’s her decision to make. She’s our queen." He’d bent the knee and could not deny the relief he had felt as the weight of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d not wanted to be the one making those decisions, not after his own men had killed him for it.

He’d hoped, faintly, that such a declaration would have ended the conversation, but Varys persisted.

“Men decide where power resides, whether or not they know it.”

“What do you want?” Jon had had enough. He was tired, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of talking, and, more than anything, tired of beating back all the questions and emotions he could not bear to face.

“All I’ve ever wanted.” Varys spoke with urgency now. “The right ruler on the Iron Throne. I still don’t know how her coin has landed, but I’m quite certain about yours.”

No. _No_. He didn’t – couldn’t – know. Only six living souls knew the truth. Daenerys had been adamant that he remain quiet and he doubted very much that Sam had sought out any member of her court. Bran might once have been unable to keep a secret, but he was Bran no longer. Arya had not seemed to trust anyone but her own family. Sansa then? She’d hardly even seemed present during that conversation in the godswood.

Jon closed his eyes for a long moment. It did not really matter how Varys knew, not when the man was hinting at treason.

“I don’t want it.” That was certainly true. “I never have.”

Varys sighed, looking disappointed but unsurprised. “I have known more kings and queens than any man living. I’ve heard what they say to crowds and seen what they do in the shadows. I have furthered their designs, however horrible. But what I tell you now is true: You will rule wisely and well while she—”

“She…is my queen.”

Jon could not, would not have this conversation. He stared at the eunuch for a brief moment, grey eyes hard as steel, then turned and continued his march up the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this gives a little more perspective on where Jon is coming from. Season 8 Jon may have been a right moron, but we also didn't see him process a damn thing that happened to him and a lot has happened to him. Jon's actions still match with the show (to this point at least), but really that's because it's the path of least resistance and he's tired AF.
> 
> Next up will be a Sansa chapter, hopefully with a quicker turnaround than this one!


End file.
